Nice Day For A White Wedding
by cuddyclothes
Summary: House and Wilson want to get married in a civil ceremony. But Wilson's mother has other ideas. Est. relationship, slash, fluff. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

"I told you, Wilson, I want to go to City Hall and get it over with. End of story." House was channel-surfing and not looking at his fiancé. "And I'm not wearing a suit."

Wilson sat on the end of the couch. "House, you have to understand. I've been married three times, and each time the bride's family paid for it. My mother has been dying to have a real wedding in the family, but she has three boys—"

"One of them locked in the loony bin—"

"And now that we're getting married, all she wants is for us to have a real wedding."

"The mother of the bride can fulfill her fantasies by watching 'Whose Wedding Is It Anyway' on the Style Channel. _No_." House slid down further into the coach, staring at the flat screen with ferocious concentration.

"Please, House. Do it for my folks. Do it for your mother. Make her happy for a change."

"Happy," House said with a snort. "When I told her about us, she screamed and hung up the phone."

"That was last year. I'm sure she's come to terms with it. Damn, House, if my folks can bring themselves to spring for a wedding, the least you can do is put on a tuxedo and mock the guests. You can even mock my family."

House groaned. "You are such a _girl._"

"You are such a dick."

"I thought that's what you loved about me. My enormous stiff-stander. Go to your happy place and imagine me fucking your brains out. AFTER we go to the justice of the peace."

Wilson paced the room in agitation. "Fine! You want to spoil everything? Fine. You want to disappoint our families? Fine. You want to have some furtive little ceremony like I'm some hooker you knocked up? Fine."

Wilson was about to storm into the bedroom when House's voice stopped him.

"Okay, you win. As long as it's simple. That's all I ask."

################################

Mr. and Mrs. Wilson sat uncomfortably opposite House and Wilson in the restaurant booth. In the back. Very far in the back. Almost in the kitchen back. It was upscale French, with white tablecloths and fine crystal. And conveniently off the beaten track, so no one would run into them.

"Mom, we're very grateful to you for this, but we want to keep it simple," said Wilson. He had clearly inherited his looks from his mother, whose dark brown hair was streaked with gray. Mr. Wilson had a large paunch and a thick, soft neck, which did not bode well for Wilson's aging process.

"I thought fags liked everything flamboyant," Mr. Wilson grumbled.

"Calvin! Do not use that language in front of your son and his…friend."

"I'm not his friend, I'm his fuck-buddy," House said. His hand found Wilson's crotch, and rubbed it gently.

"House!" Wilson jumped a little, then steadied himself. "T-the term is partners, Mom."

"Life partners," said House with an evil grin, slowly unzipping Wilson's fly. Despite its owner's sense of propriety, it was getting hard. Wilson could not wiggle away from House; he was on the inside corner of the booth. House slipped his hand into the slit of Wilson's briefs, and gently tugged out Wilson's penis. He slid one finger along one side.

"Yes, er, life partners, although sometimes I don't think, er, _life_ is quite appropriate." Wilson shot House a glare and squeezed as hard as he could into the restaurant wall.

"Maybe this'll last longer than your real marriages," Mr. Wilson said.

"Oh, it'll last," said House. "It will be long, and strong, and _really_ good." He closed his fingers around Wilson's dick.

"House!" Wilson's voice shot up an octave. "I don't think that's appropriate—language—to use about—"

"Our union?" House was stroking him now, using the pretext of leaning over so that their shoulders touched, for easier access.

"Don't make me think about it." Mr. Wilson grimaced. Wilson flushed, but it was not from shame.

"You don't want to think about us in bed?" House continued. "About our being naked? About our kissing each other?"

"House," Wilson gasped.

House turned Wilson's face to his and gave him a long, soulful kiss, to conceal the fact that at the same time he was jerking his partner hard. Wilson climaxed, his face shoved into House's, which was fortunate because it hid Wilson's expression.

"Now that's just disgusting!" Wilson's father exclaimed.

Wilson wiped the sweat off of his face. "Dad, we've talked about this—"

"You mean you've talked about this, Jimmy. One of my boys turned out a schizo and one a fag…there's only one normal son in this family."

"Yeah, and he's a violent drunk who beats his wife and terrorizes his kids. That's _normal_," said House.

Their food came, and while the waitress was serving the food and pouring wine, the group sat silent. As soon as she left, Mr. Wilson started to speak, but his wife cut him off. "I apologize for your father. Jimmy—"

"His name is James," House snapped.

"House, she's my mother. She can call me what she wants."

"Jimmy, I want you to have a beautiful wedding." Her brown eyes widened pleadingly. "I was thinking, we have that big backyard, and well, I've always dreamed of planning my daughter's wedding. We didn't have a wedding, you know, just a civil ceremony. Every time you've gotten married, I've envied the mothers of the bride—brides. Please let me have this."

"All right, Mom."

####################################################

"Oh my god! My three ex-wives as _bridesmaids?_ My brother as best man? Mom, what are you thinking? It's not going to be a ceremony, it's going to be a ritual sacrifice!"

Mrs. Wilson smiled happily at her son. "Well, now, House can't be your best man, can he?"

"But Peter-? Mom, I don't even want him there. He'll make a drunken scene, and Bonnie will lock herself in the bathroom." Wilson rubbed his face in his hands. "House is gonna kill me."

"Jimmy, it's all been arranged. The invitations have been sent out."

"You made the invitations without _telling_ me?"

His mother pouted prettily. "I told you, I'd take care of everything." She produced a card from the end table next to the flowered couch and handed it to him. Wilson gasped at the elaborate calligraphy, the flowery wording, and worst, the cherubs on all four corners of the card.

"House cannot see this," Wilson gargled. "Not only will he kill me, he'll dissect me! Next you'll want him to wear a wedding dress!"

"No, Jimmy_, you're_ the bride." Mrs. Wilson sighed contentedly. "At last, I have a daughter."

Wilson stared down at his mother and had a sickening thought.

Now he knew where Danny had inherited his schizophrenia.


	2. Chapter 2

"How did it go with Momzilla?" House asked when Wilson walked through the door. House was sprawled on the couch, trying to look bored but obviously not.

Wilson carefully hung up his coat. "Fine. Great. She's having a great time."

"And?"

"The invitations went out. I gave her our guest list. We discussed the wedding party."

"What wedding party?"

"Oh…well…it's not settled. Only that you can't be the best man."

House smiled. "Come 'ere." He raised one arm toward Wilson, who gratefully snuggled into House's chest, sitting next to the couch. They kissed lightly in greeting.

"I'm already the best man."

"Oh god, House, my mother—"

"Fuck your mother."

"In your dreams."

"No, you're in my dreams. Not that your mom isn't a smokin' hottie, she—"

"Then imagine I'm Mom, if that's what gets you hot, you pervert." Wilson grinned and kissed House hard, thrusting his tongue into House's mouth. At the same time he took House's head gently with his right hand. Stroking House's hair, Wilson felt a wave of love for this man who was the only person in the world who truly knew him, the only person Wilson could ever let truly know him. And who also had the body of death, if you left out the right thigh. House was love-starved; he cuddled and snuggled and was constantly touching and stroking Wilson when they were alone, almost like a pet. Verbally he was more inhibited. But House had been the one who proposed, putting an enormous fake engagement ring in a piece of banana cream pie, then enjoying when Wilson nearly choked to death on it. (Nevertheless they'd had a lot of fun with the ring that night, using banana cream to slide the ring on Wilson's penis and House licking it off. That was one for the white-quilted "Memory Book" Wilson's mother was giving House as a present.)

House pulled back his head, his large blue eyes studying Wilson. Then he kissed Wilson lightly on the cheek, then the other cheek, then the forehead, each touch of his lips sending a frisson of anticipation through Wilson's body. Finally he kissed him on the mouth, smiling at his own sappiness, and stroked Wilson's face.

"You are loved," he said. That was the closest House had come to saying "I love you."

"I love you," Wilson said, letting House's hands slide down the sides of his head, feel his ears, his chin, his neck, and then start to unbutton his shirt. Wilson was still kneeling, and he could feel House's dick getting hard against his back. Nevertheless, Wilson sat passively, letting his partner undress him, knowing that House cherished doing this, unwrapping him like a birthday present. When his shirt was unbuttoned, Wilson wiggled out of it, folding it neatly and putting it on the coffee table.

"Did anyone ever tell you you need professional help?" House said fondly.

"Look who's talking." Wilson hitched up on his knees so that House could unbuckle his belt and undo his pants. House's face was soft and beautiful with lust; it almost made Wilson want to cry.

Then Wilson scooted back on his ass on the floor, so that House could untie his shoelaces, remove Wilson's shoes and then his socks. House softly ran a hand along the top of Wilson's foot.

"Hee!" It tickled, and Wilson jerked back his foot.

Suddenly House lunged forward and tickled Wilson, laughing at how Wilson squealed and try to bat away his hands. "House! Cut it out!"

"You love it, you horny bastard," House giggled. "You can't get enough of my hands."

"_This_ I can get enough of!" Wilson yelped. "Okay, okay, I give! I give!"

House drew back with a smile of triumph and Wilson lay on the floor, his arms still defensively crossed across his bare chest.

Wilson watched as House tugged off his t-shirt, tossing it into the corner (and yes, he'd wear it afterwards…didn't he know the five-second rule?), unzipped his jeans, and pulled them down, toeing off his sneakers, then slid out of his briefs, leaving himself naked, cock ramrod straight, on the couch. Wilson still had his pants around his calves, so he took the pants off, also folding them neatly, making sure the crease was right, before putting them next to his shirt.

"Watching your OCD kills the mood, Wilson."

"It's not OCD." Wilson stood up and stepped out of his briefs, which were bright white. House preferred to buy purple, red and black briefs. Today's pair was dark red. "I like things tidy, unlike some others I could name."

He leaned over House's body, his own penis throbbing, and kissed the lean stomach, and, imitating House, each nipple, each side of the face and finishing with the forehead.

"Get up," said Wilson, helping House to his feet. They pressed their naked bodies together, kissing, lips caressing each other's, voluptuous waves of pleasure washing over them. Wilson moved so that House could lean on him slightly and take the pressure off the bad leg, but still keep standing and pushing against him. House had to bend slightly so that their cocks could rub together. When they did, House gave a tiny gasp and turned his face away, looking over Wilson's shoulder. They swayed together, every available surface touching, skin and hair and delicious body heat, and the smell, the smell was glorious, the odors of their bodies and sex.

Wilson let go, and lay down on the couch, his legs wide. He grinned as House gingerly lowered himself down at the end of the couch, then leaned forward and took Wilson's dick in his mouth. The first time it had happened, Wilson had been astonished. He had assumed House would be the one receiving the blow job, not him, but House had been aching to blow him for months.

And House was incredibly good at it—Wilson gave thanks to all of those hookers who'd blown House and given him mad skills. House licked the underside of Wilson's penis, tonguing around it, using his large lips for maximum suction, send jolts of ecstasy through Wilson's body.

"_Jesus fuck_, House," Wilson panted, getting louder as House deep-throated him. "Holy crap! Oh, yes, suck me, _suck me_, oh God, I love you _so much_, suck me harder!"

House obliged, sucking harder and faster, one hand caressing Wilson's balls, while Wilson flailed and batted at the air.

"Watch those nails," House muttered around Wilson's cock. As if Wilson cared about nails right now! He didn't even know if he had fingers! Blinding fireworks were going off inside of him, it was too much, he couldn't endure it, he would die from pleasure—

He came volcanically, causing House to gag and pull his head back. Wilson grabbed his dick and kept jerking, until finally he was finished. House coughed and swallowed. Then he tenderly kissed the top of Wilson's left thigh.

"You are so cute when you lose it," House said.

The strange thing was, House would have been perfectly happy to jerk himself off without Wilson's help. The first few times they'd had sex, House had a difficult time reciprocating, as if he didn't deserve that much enjoyment.

He got over it, though, in no time.

"Your turn," Wilson gasped. "Lie down. No, help me up first. God, that was amazing. You wait."

Wilson staggered to the refrigerator and after perusing the shelves, took out a jar of Kraft butterscotch ice cream topping. He was going to use the Reddi-Whip, but he didn't actually like it that much.

"Sweet stuff for my sweet stuff," Wilson said, assuming the same position House had. He opened the cold jar, and poured the butterscotch sauce liberally over House's crotch.

"Hey! That shit's FREEZING!" House started to sit up, but Wilson dipped his fingers in the butterscotch and thrust them into his partner's mouth. House sucked his fingers clean, so Wilson dipped his fingers again and repeated the process. It gave Wilson so much happiness to see House relaxed, smiling, and horny as hell.

"Okay, one banana split coming up. Sorry, no cherry on top." Wilson carefully put the lid back on the jar and set it on the floor (it would leave a mark on the table; he'd clean the floor later). Then he lowered his head and started licking.

"Wow, this is good," he remarked, feeling House's hips buck underneath him. "Premium brand, wouldn't you say?" He gave House's dick another long, slow lick, swirling his tongue.

"Shut—the—fuck—up," House growled.

Wilson grinned. "Eat me."

"No, eat _me_."

"Okay," Wilson said, and buried his face in House's pubic hair, licking the butterscotch pooling inside of his thighs, on his balls, listening to House moan and swear. Good thing he hadn't used that brittle chocolate they put on soft serve, because House was anything but soft serve now. Wilson continued to lick off the butterscotch, alternating licks with taking House into his mouth, sucking hard a few times, then going back to licking. He knew it was almost like punishment, two kinds of sexual delight interrupting each other.

"Please, Wilson, finish me off…" House panted.

_Patience,_ Wilson thought, and licked the base of the cock. It was relatively free of butterscotch now, so he took it in his mouth and sucked hard and fast. He couldn't deep throat the way House could, so he used energy to compensate. By now he could suck so fast any lesser mortal would get whiplash. House's body went rigid, then he came hard in Wilson's mouth, and Wilson swallowed it, sucking hard, pulling out every possible drop until House dropped back onto the couch, exhausted.

Wilson sat up and wiped his mouth on his forearm.

House smiled at him contentedly.

"The honeymoon's gonna kill me," he said.

#################################################

Wilson convinced his mother not to let his brother be the best man. Instead, he picked Foreman, for two reasons.

Nothing fazed Foreman;

Nothing fazed Foreman.

Fortunately, House had a case to obsess about, a patient he called "Bleeding Armpit Guy," so he didn't ask Wilson anything more than cursory questions about the wedding. Wilson felt a growing sense of dread. His mother really was The Mother Of The Bride From Hell. All of that pent-up frustration, watching her sons get married, came flooding out in piles of white roses, cages of white doves, swags of white satin, and worse, everything that wasn't white was gold. The Wilson backyard was going to look like a cheap Italian furniture store.

"A _huppah_, Mom?"

"You have to have a huppah, Jimmy. And House will break the glass. You've done it three times, it's his turn." Mrs. Wilson was glowing with happiness. "You have no idea how much this means to me, baby. Your father is a putz, but he can sit upstairs and smoke his damn cigars and watch the ballgame if he wants."

"We—we're not using a rabbi, are we?"

"Relax, he does interfaith marriages all of the time."

Wilson blanched at the thought of House confronting a rabbi. But looking at his mother's face, how could he say no? She was his mother, and this was the happiest he had ever seen her.

"All right, Mom, just ask him not to mention God, okay?"


	3. Chapter 3

House understood that the wedding had to be a Sunday because Saturday was the Sabbath; Wilson may not have been observant but his parents were, after a fashion. "Jewish when convenient," House called it.

That afternoon, he grumblingly climbed into a tuxedo. Wilson had insisted on spending the night at his parents' house, saying 'the bride shouldn't see the groom.' He really was a girl. House smiled at the thought of Wilson in bridal drag, his face covered by a white veil. Actually, the thought made him kind of hot. But Wilson looked even hotter in a tuxedo.

The first sign that something might not be right was when he drove toward the Wilson home. There were signs tied to trees with white ribbons and gold balloons: WILSON WEDDING THIS WAY. There were cars filling the driveway and down the block.

House had to park several cars down. He was using his special occasion cane with the silver handle, but it was still painful to limp that far.

"Oh, God." The walk leading up to the front door was lined with short posts, each tied to each other with white ribbons, each one festooned with a yellow rose. There was the sound of a happy, slightly drunk crowd.

"House!" It was Foreman, looking perfect as always in a tuxedo he probably owned. He had been getting his drink on. A woozy smile was on his face. He threw a friendly arm around his boss's shoulders. "House, you will not believe what is going on back there."

"Lesbian strippers?"

"You wish. Damn, House, it's worse than that movie, Steve Martin, you know, where his daughter's getting married. They got a damn harpsichord!" Foreman paused. "I'm sorry about the bachelor party."

"Let us never talk about it again. Unless I need to mock you."

Foreman sighed deeply. "I thought cow-tipping would be fun."

Inside, it was a house of horrors. All of these people House had never met were slapping him on the back or shaking his hand, but he didn't hear a word they were saying. All he saw was the white satin everywhere, and across the living room, a huge white banner festooned with hearts:

**CONGRATULATIONS GREG & JIMMY**

Under each name, one of those icky wide-eyed cherubs was holding a daisy. House felt like the floor was rocking under him. There were platters of food, a full bar, and strangers—dozens of strangers.

"Greggy!" Mrs. Wilson was dressed in a pink sheath dress and matching jacket. She threw her arms around House, ignoring the fact he stiffened. "You look wonderful!"

"Thanks. Where's the patriarch?"

"He'll come down when the ceremony starts. There's an important ball game on TV." House glanced around the room, simultaneously looking for the bar and for his mother. He spotted her first, ashen-faced in the corner, in a black flowered pants suit. She was dressed for a funeral.

"Hi, Mom," he said tentatively when he reached her through the mob. "Thanks for coming."

"I had to," Blythe said. Her meaning was vague. "Greg, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

House forced a smile. He was having doubts. "Yes, Mom, Wilson's the man for me."

"Oh!" Blythe put her head down and cried quietly. House gave her his handkerchief.

"It'll be over soon, Mom, then you can speed back to Kentucky where I'd get killed on sight."

"Oh, Greg," Blythe sobbed.

Foreman, holding two glasses of bourbon, found him in the horde. "Here, House, have a drink." He lifted his glass in a toast. "To House and Wilson, may your lives be as strange as the two of you."

"Uh, thanks, Foreman."

There was the sound of a tinkling harpsichord, and all of the guests started filing out into the backyard. Foreman grinned. "We'd better take our positions, House. I'll hold you up."

"I don't need it," House snapped.

"You will."

###################################################

It was worse than House's worst nightmare. The backyard was decorated with white satin swags, tables with white satin tablecloths and gold plastic flatware, a bouquet of yellow roses on each table. The chairs on either side were packed. House had only invited Foreman and his mother, but his entire team was there. So much for House's side of the family. Cuddy hadn't been invited, at Wilson's request. Chase was smirking, Taub had obviously had yet another fight with his wife, and Thirteen was eyeing the bridesmaids.

The bridesmaids…Wilson's three ex-wives. All in cream colored eyelet long gowns. Sam was glaring at him, Bonnie looked like she wanted to fall through the earth, the third one whose name he could never remember was smiling. She gave him a wink.

"Come on, that's your cue," Foreman said, as the harpsichord started playing _'Ave Maria'_. He took House's arm.

'_Ave Maria_?' At a wedding?"

"Don't ask me, it was Wilson's mother's idea."

Foreman walked on House's left down the aisle, when House saw the huppah. It was also white and gold, a cloth canopy on gold posts. Underneath was a grim rabbi. It was clear he did not want to be there. Neither did House.

"I can't do this," House muttered to Foreman.

"You've gone this far, House, it'll be over in a few moments." Foreman guided House to his side under the huppah.

House saw the wedding cake. Oh dear motherfucking God, it was six tiers high, with white icing and gilt cherubs frolicking around it, with two little groom figures on top. House had put a lot of stuff in his mouth, but he drew the line at that cake. There were gold cages with white doves hung around the garden.

Mr. Wilson and Peter Wilson slid into chairs in the back, glowering at House, both smoking stogies.

The harpsichord struck up 'Here Comes The Bride,' and out of the house came Wilson, on the arm of his mother. House thought he would have an aneurysm.

Wilson was wearing a tuxedo, like his. But on Wilson's head, he was wearing…

_A bridal veil._

Beneath the white tulle Wilson looked like he wanted to die. It was two layers, the top to his ears and the underlayer to his shoulders, but it was a fucking **wedding veil. **Muffled snickers could be heard throughout the audience.

"Jesus fuck, man, a veil?" Foreman muttered.

"Okay, that's IT!" House yelled as loudly as he could. "Stop that goddamn music!"

The harpsichord broke off. Wilson stared at House under his veil.

"I don't know whose sick fantasy this is, but Wilson, if you think I'm going to let a rabbi marry us under a goddamn God canopy, in a backyard that looks like a white satin brothel, with you wearing that—" House choked. "That _thing_ on your head—"

In a fury, House swung his cane at Wilson's head, meaning to pull the veil off of it. Instead, it knocked into one of the fancy gilded bird cages, resulting in a flurry of white doves flying out. One white dove flew smack into Wilson's veil, getting its claws tangled. Panicked, the dove flapped its wings, slapping Wilson's head.

"Get this off of me!" Wilson yelled. Several guests sprang to his aid as House made a hasty retreat.

Mrs. Wilson looked around the crowd in dismay, then at the rabbi, then at Wilson.

"Does anyone else here want to marry my boy?" she asked. "I mean, we have the huppah and everything."

Sam started laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson fell back against the front door after he shut it behind him. This had been the worst day of his life, number one with a bullet. Why had he let his batshit insane mother talk him into this? Why had he agreed to wear the veil? (Okay, because she cried and threatened suicide if he didn't.) There was bird crap in his hair.

"House? You there? Jesus, I'm sorry, House!"

There was no answer. Wilson called House's name a few more times, then went into the bedroom.

A flurry of packing had taken place. House had used one of Wilson's Louis Vuitton suitcases, no less. Shirts had been yanked off their hangers, drawers hung open, and several books were missing. Wilson sank down on the bed.

Shit.

Then he remembered he had bird crap in his hair, and went to take a shower.

##################################################################

The next morning, Wilson awoke and automatically felt for House next to him on the bed. Pain locked down his chest, and he had some trouble breathing. He sat up, still amazed at the nightmare the previous day had been. Automatically the night before he had cleaned up the mess in the bedroom. It no longer looked like House had left, but the silence indicated otherwise.

"Oh, god, House," Wilson murmured, a tear sliding down his face. To the empty room he said, "I'm sorry."

When he got out of bed, his feet felt like blocks of cement, but he forced himself to walk to the kitchen to make coffee. Then it hit him that House's team had seen the whole thing. Wilson would have to hide on the oncology floor for the rest of his life. The rest of his life without House.

He stood stock still as the coffee perked, looking at nothing. A few minutes after it was finished, he poured a cup and took a sip. House made better coffee.

Wilson turned, his gaze sweeping the living room. There was the organ he'd given House, the organ House loved playing at three in the morning, just to drive the neighbors crazy. There was the couch they'd made love on so many times. There was the flat screen that replaced the one that got ruined when that asshole Lucas set off the sprinklers. There were House's guitars…

House's guitars. He'd never leave without his guitars. That Fender Stratocaster meant more than anything to him, except Wilson, and Wilson had never actually wanted to test that theory out. Wilson smiled.

################################################################

A slow, horrible week went by. Wilson stayed on the oncology floor, sending his assistant up to his office to fetch his mail and other important papers. Every morning when he got up and every evening when he got in, he checked for the guitars. They were still there. If he knew where House was, he could send him a photo of the guitars and write, "They miss you" on the back of it. The guitars kept Wilson going.

House hadn't come in to work, either. When he asked Cuddy if she knew where House was, she snapped, "Who cares?"

Foreman had said, "After what happened, I think he's probably gone to Mexico and changed his name."

Every time his cell phone rang, he snatched it out of his pocket, but it was never House. Mrs. Wilson had left numerous messages, but Wilson didn't call her back.

###############################################################

"Wilson? It's me," said the voice on voice-mail. "I hope you've killed your mother and renounced your faith. I wanted to say—" the voice mail ended, then the robotic female voice announced the date and time of the call.

Wilson held the earpiece so hard his ear hurt. The next message came on.

"I'm sorry, Wilson, but I hope someone took photos of you with that bird on your head. That look works for you. I, um, I—" the voice mail ended.

"House!" Wilson yelled angrily into the empty air. The next message came on.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I mean it. I ruined that sick parody of our special day. I miss you. You—you—I love you. Shit, I'm getting mushy. I hate mush." The voice mail ended.

Wilson ended the call, and pounded #69 to get the phone number. He wrote the number down, and immediately recognized it. It was Chase.

#########################################################

Wilson ran three red lights driving to Chase's apartment. If House had started an affair with Chase, Wilson was first going to kill Chase with an ice pick then disembowel his ex-fiance'.

He leapt out of the double-parked car, not locking it, and rang Chase's doorbell over and over, the way House did. After a yell of "Just a minute!" Chase opened the door. He smiled.

"So, you tracked down the runaway bridegroom," Chase drawled. "Thank God, he's the biggest pain in the arse…I don't know how you live with him. He drank all my Fosters."

Wilson pushed past Chase. "House!" Chase's apartment was disgusting—clothing strewn everywhere, dirty plates and glasses, and the distinct smell of stale beer. "House!"

"He's in the bathroom, I'll wager," Chase said behind him. "Please, get him out of here. I can't throw him out, he's my boss. Probably locked himself in." He pointed the way to the bathroom.

The door was shut and locked.

"House, stop being ridiculous and open this door!"

"No."

"Are you taking Vicodin in there?"

"No, I'm whacking off to child porn. Go away."

Wilson slid down to the floor. Which needed a good scrubbing. "House, you said you loved me—"

"Did not."

"I saved the voicemails. Please come home. I promise, we'll have a simple civil ceremony. I won't let my family even _visit_ for the next year. Anything you want, House. We don't have to get married, if that's what you're after."

There was silence.

"I have all of your guitars, and I changed the locks." The second part was a lie. Wilson heard rustling and a thump, then a curse.

"They'd make great kindling."

"We don't have a fireplace, Wilson."

"Nora has a fireplace."

"Does Sam have a fireplace?"

"Yes," Wilson lied.

There was more rustling, and the lock clicked. House swung open the door. He too had been sitting on the floor. House looked as though he hadn't slept all week, either.

"I don't want that bitch near my guitars."

Before House could scoot away, Wilson threw his arms around his partner and pulled him close, kissing his face frantically. Wilson felt House's body relax against his, and the long arms slowly embraced Wilson. Their mouths met for a long soul kiss.

"Once again, love conquers all," Chase said with a laugh, and walked away.

"I love you, Wilson."

"I love you, House." Wilson stared at House in amazement. House gave an embarrassed grin.

"I'm a sentimental slob, what can I say?"

"Say you love me again."

"I love you." Wilson rested his head on House's shoulder, noting House hadn't showered for a few days. He still smelled good.

"Will you come home now?"

"Yeah." House paused. "How are my guitars?"

"They say hi. House, you're right, straightforward ceremony, we don't even have to wear suits. Although if you could wear a tie—"

House shushed him with a finger on his lips. "Don't even start," he said tenderly. "When we get home…well, let's say I have a craving for butterscotch."


End file.
